


Your eyes of blue (Your kisses too)

by locheia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bets & Wagers, Mention of blood, Multi, Murder, character discorporation, crowley gets shot but he's okay, dares, roaring 20's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 11:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19317655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locheia/pseuds/locheia
Summary: Hastur makes a bet with a discorporated Crowley that he can't be a woman for a decade. Gabriel orders Aziraphale to follow suit so he can track Crowley better.And so, the unlikely couple tackle the struggles of womanhood, the Roaring Twenties and perhaps, a little thing called love - all the while causing chaos along the way.





	Your eyes of blue (Your kisses too)

Crowley sauntered into the room of the club, dressed as a rather flamboyant 1919’s American businessman. It was a habit, the sauntering, and not one easily undone, as his hips seemed to move like a Newton’s Cradle, swaying this way, that way and then back. He often found himself wondering if Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘The Pit and The Pendulum’ was really about the Spanish Inquisition as the man had broadly claimed, or about that one time he had seen Crowley dancing.  
Either way, had his dancing scarred a famous author or not, Crowley did saunter into the room. And as soon as he stepped over the threshold, he found a pretty little revolver thrust in his face.  
“Who are you?” A woman hissed, blond curls falling over her chest, which was uncomfortably over-exposed. “What do you want?”  
Crowley blanched, and barely managed to string the words together to say, “This is a public place,” if quite dumbly at that.  
The woman didn’t seem to particularly care if this was a public place or the most private of all, because the gun remained pointedly aimed at his temple. “Get out. We’re busy.”  
One thing to note, among other many strange quirks about Anthony but not quite J yet at this point in time Crowley, was that he seemed incapable of standing down when he felt offended. And being greeted with a gun to his face made him feel rather offended. “It’s a public space,” he responded, suddenly defiant, arms crossed over his chest and deliberately avoiding staring at hers (did she not own a shawl? a scarf? anything?!), “So I can do as I please.”  
The woman seemed slightly taken aback for a moment, shifted on the balls of her feet, and then scowled deeply. “Well, it’s private now, buddy,” she snarled, “So. Piss off.”  
“No.”  
“What part of ‘leave’ aren’t you getting? Beat it!” Her face was flushed now, and the hand holding revolver seemed delightfully like it was readying to pull the trigger. “You think you’re some kind of bimbo, huh?”  
Crowley unfortunately didn’t know that in the future the word ‘bimbo’ would take on rather different connotations from ‘tough guy’ as the blond woman meant it. He would later spend many drunk nights cursing his next choice in words, and hoping to the stars he had made that downstairs would never know nor understand exactly what he had said. However, past Crowley didn’t know of the future, and thus glared back at the woman, declaring proudly “I am a fucking bimbo, so let me through!”  
“What’s your problem anyway?” he asked, quickly moving around her and peering around the door. The room smelt heady and familiar, like evenings in his apartment, but more like hops than grapes. There were boxes strewn over the floor, and another woman looked up, and rapidly shoved a brown bottle into a box, desperately hiding the label. His eyes suddenly widened at the scene before him, and turned back to face blondie.  
“Wait, are you bootleg-“  
The sound of a gunshot rang through the air, tinny in the demon’s ears. A sharp pain threw him backwards, and he clutched the wall to keep himself upright. Automatically using his free hand, he reached for his chest, pulling it away to see it stained a glossy red colour.  
“Oh fuck,” he murmured as the blond woman took a very human step back in shock at what she had done, as he felt his legs giving away beneath him, as his corporal form bled out.  
He lowered his eyes to Hell, and grimaced.  
“This going to be so much paperwork.”  
He then, in proper Crowley fashion, promptly keeled over and died. 

\---

The walls were a barren, rather miserable beige, dotted only with slight spots of brown that may have been roaches or just the paint peeling away to reveal the tone beneath. The lights were LEDS, pinpoint white and uncomfortably sharp, while the carpet was horrifically soggy from an indiscernible liquid that one was better off not knowing the source of. As well as that, the room was humid, the only working tv played a constant loop of “The Ten Commandments, read by Sandalphon” and the vending machine only had chewy granola bars that stuck to your teeth.  
All in all, it was the perfect waiting room for Hell.  
Crowley had been there a fortnight, and he was sick of it. He would have punched the TV 10 days ago if he still had hands, been tempted to eat one of the granola bars 5 days ago if he could still eat and would have licked the floor for moisture 3 days ago if he could still drink. He was reaching breaking point.  
In fact, he was entirely sure that there wasn’t even anyone before him when he arrived, and nobody else had joined the non-existent queue, so it made it even more irritating that he was still floating there. Any other demon would have revelled in the pain, the torment they were enduring, but Crowley was an odd sort of demon. He was rather attached to heavenly things, not that he would ever say it out loud, so prolonged exposure to Hell wasn’t really his style. He wasn’t particularly good at being bad, seeing how much he missed drinking, music, his car, and A-  
His thoughts were cut through instantly by a loud, shrieking alarm, followed by an all too familiar voice calling out his name.  
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, floating over to the unhappily sticky door and pushing it open.  
“Why’d it have to be you?”  
Hastur grinned, and gestured gleefully for him to enter.  
“Why not take a seat, Crowley,” he drawled, before noting, “Oh, but you can’t do that now, can you?”  
“Hastur,” Crowley greeted coolly, deciding to float ominously over the chair in order to piss off his fellow demon, “Let’s skip the pleasantries. Do you have a new body for me?”  
Hastur’s mouth split into a wide, toothy grin.  
“Oh, but first I need to know what happened for you to need one, Crowley. It’s very important, as you know.”  
Crowley felt his non-corporeal shoulders slump in tiredness and annoyance. “Fine. I was at a club.”  
Hastur dipped a quill pen in the red pot of ink that was on his desk, and transcribed Crowley’s words out on the yellowing parchment he had cursed into existence. Crowley was disappointed by how far behind Hell was when it came to processing applicants for corporeal forms - after all, who had a vending machine and no pens?  
“Right.” Hastur wrinkled up his face, before leaning in toward Crowley’s fluctuating spirit form.  
“What’s a club?” He asked, highly confused, “Is it like the torturing instrument?”  
Oh for Satan’s sake, this was going to take forever. 

Around possibly a decade later (and more accurately 5 hours, 34 minutes and 12 seconds later) Crowley had finally smashed in the facts of his awful day into Hastur’s incomprehensibly thick skull and managed to get him to write it all out.  
“Now,” he sighed dramatically, “Can I have my old body back?”  
Hastur blinked slowly, leaning back in the squeaky office chair, before posing a strange question to his old colleague and enemy.  
“Why?”  
“Why?! Because I want my body back! Have you tried being discorporated for more than a week? It’s hel- it’s hea- it’s not very fucking fun!” Crawly finally decided, having finally reached his breaking point, something he tended to do often when he was forced to spend time with Hastur.  
The mentioned demon didn’t seem to care for Crowley’s outburst however, the words away in the air waved away without any fuss. “I know you want a body, Crowley. But why your old body?”  
Crowley found himself staring back at Hastur, momentarily shocked. “What?”  
Hastur shrugged. “Most demons change their bodies when they’re killed, you know. Some shapeshift even when they don’t really need to, just to keep themselves entertained. So what’s so special about your human body? Why’d you want to keep it?”  
Crowley felt his nonexistent throat go dry and his not-there palms go sweaty in fear. Hastur was probably expecting some evil, twisted and diabolical answer from the self-proclaimed ‘best demon on earth”. So could he tell Hastur the truth, when it was that he had grown to like his old body? That he enjoyed his height, his eyes, the vaguely unsteady way he walked? The way it felt right to wear that body, _his_ body, the one he had grown in, learned in - fallen in love in?  
Hastur wouldn’t understand. Nobody else possibly could, except for one other celestial being, who was probably entertaining himself with a book or an attractive author and not thinking twice about Crowley.  
So, instead of answering truthfully, Crowley utilised his aeons age skill of dodging hard questions that gave him feelings, and responded, “Guess ‘m fond of it.”  
Hastur barked, a rough sound that one would only identify as a laugh if they were very drunk and optimistic, before allowing a menacing grin to play on his thin lips. “Well, don’t suppose it matters. You wouldn’t be able to...” His voice trailed off, and he said something in a low whisper, before making a strange wheezing sound.  
“Wouldn’t be able to what?” Crowley snapped, not willing to deal with Hastur having inside jokes with only himself, if the demon wasn’t going to give him his body back.  
“Inhabit another body,” Hastur told him simply.  
Another fact about Anthony (yet to be decided) Crowley was also that he was a foolhardy creature. If Hastur said he couldn’t, the man would walk through all of the levels of Hell to prove him wrong, and right now he was feeling particularly antagonistic.  
“Yes I could!”  
“No, you couldn’t.”  
“Oh, I could! I could do it for a year! I could do it for years in fact!”  
“Is that so?”  
“Oh, yes, it is!”  
“Well then,” Hastur smiled maliciously, “Why don’t we see if that’s true?”  
Crowley, despite the indignant momentum he was building up, came to a sudden halt again. “I’m sorry?”  
“Take another form. Let’s say, for another decade? Prove you can do it, and you’re not so weak as to go crawling back in the body you seem so fond of, like the slimy snake you are.”  
“Snakes aren’t slimy, they’re smooth,” Crowley corrected, before nervously asking, “But what type of form are you thinking?”  
Hastur pressed a finger to his chin, and made a point to look like was thinking incredibly hard. A moment passed, a heavy heartbeat. “How about- you become a woman?” He smirked.  
Crowley would have fallen out his chair if he still had the ability. “Wha- I- no, I couldn’t!”  
“Too afraid?”  
“No, that’s not true!”  
Be a woman? That was not something he was accustomed too. Crowley was a man of habit, and a man of habit at that, and being a woman would completely disrupt that. Nothing was wrong with being a woman, of course, but the last time he had tried being a woman was in the 1400’s, and that had not gone well. People in the royal court just did not know how to keep their hands to themselves, especially not the monarch. And the outfits, Hell below, the outfits. He’d spent perhaps a week as woman, and that was perfectly enough for him.  
But then... if he backed away from this challenge, he was basically rolling over and allowing Hastur to mock him. Crowley wasn’t willing to hear ‘Oh it’s cowardly Crowley!’ jokes for the next millennia, and he wasn’t the type to run from a difficult test.  
He could be a woman, and he’d be a good one, a damned one and a damned good one at that.  
After all, what could go wrong?  
“Fine. You’ve got a deal. I’ll be a woman for the next decade, to prove I can do it.”  
“Fair enough Crowley.” Hastur extended a rotting hand to Crowley, allowing his fellow fallen one the power to have a hand in order to shake back. He cocked his head, and licked his lips.  
“I’ll be waiting for when you fail.”  
“Oh, fat chance,” Crowley laughed, “Now. What should my body look like?”  
“Why don’t we find out?” Hastur’s cruel smile broadened, and he drew his hand back.  
“Wait, what does that mean-“ Crowley began, but with one click of Hastur’s fingers, he was gone, leaving the Duke of Hell alone in the office, grinning wickedly.  
“Oh, this is going to be _fun_.”


End file.
